


Negotiations

by eraemilius



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M, Humanstuck, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Threats of Violence, violence (slick being slick)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:19:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eraemilius/pseuds/eraemilius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maintaining a stable moirallegiance with a wildcard like Slick has never been easy for Droog, but when Slick's volatile kismesissitude with Snowman is involved, it becomes even more of a challenge. When Slick refuses to attend a 'meeting' with Snowman, Droog goes it alone. But Snowman is only interested in one member of the Midnight Crew, and it isn't Droog.  Vague noir-style humanstuck with Diamonds Droog making his best effort not to become an auspistice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiations

There wasn't a suit in Midnight City that fit Spades Slick well. No matter the cut or the tailor, suits hung off his stunted, bony frame unattractively. Droog almost pitied him--almost. But Spades Slick wasn't the kind of person you pitied. 

It would have been more appropriate to pity the tailor who was on his knees at Slick's feet, doing his best to mark and pin the hem of the trousers that had been five or six inches too long for the hunched little man. The tailor was trembling with every pin he inserted into the fabric, knowing full well (as did every other tailor in the city) that a mistaken pinprick was cause enough for a death. Slick wasn't helping the situation any, picking at his fingernails with the point of his blade and muttering under his breath all the while the man worked. 

Across the room, Droog uncrossed his legs and took a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it into the ashtray on the coffee table as he stood. "We need to go."

"He ain't done yet," Slick muttered. The tailor's hand shook as he avoided eye contact with either of them.

"Not my problem," Droog said, taking his hat from the coat rack by the door. "It’s time. She's waitin’ for us."

"Well that bitch can wait, I'm busy here."

Droog slipped on his overcoat, fixing the lapels. "You’ve only got one eye left, Slick, you really want to keep her waiting?”

Slick scowled, finally looking up from his nails to give Droog a scornful glare. It was entirely ignored. "Well, I ain't holdin you up," he said. "You go on ahead. I'll catch up with ya when I’m done."

Droog's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, but Slick's mouth curled into a sneer. A moment passed while Droog was forced to accept the inevitability of the situation Slick had cornered him into.

"As you say, boss," he answered, turning for the door.

Slick’s cackling followed him out.

…

They had known the day would come. 

The day when _she_ would find her way to Midnight City and take up residence as though she was welcome there. 

Much to the Crew’s dismay, it hadn’t taken long for her and Slick to find one another again. After several days of swearing and screaming and beating at his piano, Slick had vanished from the Crew’s apartments all together, only to return several days later with bite marks on his neck and several poorly-dressed lacerations on his back--the kind one gets from a _whip crack_ , Droog recognized all too well.

But Slick had also brought more back with him than scars: he had news. The worst part of _her_ sudden appearance was that she hadn’t shown up in Midnight City alone. She’d come toting an entourage claiming to be a crew of its own, The Felt, and following the orders of the mysterious Lord English whom none of them had ever heard of.

The Felt had erected a manor on the edge of town and then asserted themselves on the city, trying to claim large portions of it for their boss. Territorial disputes had broken out, and Slick, who already couldn’t see straight as far as _she_ was concerned, had managed to lose himself an eye in the middle of a gunfight where she had made an unexpected personal appearance. From that point on, she had begun to try to meet with them under the guise of ‘negotiating’.

Droog knew her attempts to meet with them were all a sham. She had no interest in negotiating, why would she? Queens are by their nature...conquerors. Though it troubled Droog to admit it, he suspected the only reason she was biding her time at all was...Slick.

She was waiting for him when he entered the room, stretched out on a dark, velvet chaise in the back of the lounge. Even obscured by the shimmering green curtain that sectioned off her private seating, it was unmistakably _her_. Wide-brimmed hat on her brow, long cigarette holder hanging limply from her slender fingers.

Droog almost considered turning and walking back out of the place the moment he entered, but there was no going back now that he'd been seen. And he _knew_ he’d been seen. He kept to the wall as he made his way around the room to her private corner, ignoring the patrons who sat at low tables and booths, smoking and drinking and pretending they didn’t notice him passing through the shadows. He nudged his hat slightly lower over his eyes, but he knew it made no difference. He was as recognizable in this city as she was. They all were.

Warm tones of smooth jazz filled the smoky air as he stepped up to the green curtain. Two members of the Felt stood guard where the curtain parted, and he couldn’t help but hear Slick cursing ‘those goddamn green bastards in my city actin like they own the fucking place’ in the back of his head. 

“Gentlemen,” he said shortly. It was too good a word for them.

Neither replied. They were a good foot or more taller than him, and twice as broad. Droog had interacted with them before, he was sure, but he’d never made a note to keep up with their names or ranks. They were brute strength, muscle men. Easily outwitted, and not worth remembering. He believed Slick kept a list somewhere though, with pictures even. A ‘vendetta itinerary,’ Droog believed he called it. Handy little thing, he supposed, if you considered remembering the names of your enemies important. And Slick did. But nonetheless, it was an ultimately unnecessary item. Slick never forgot a name, or a face, once someone had gotten on his bad side.

And the whole damn world had gotten on his bad side.

With great reluctance, Droog removed his hat and handed it to one of the men. He carefully shrugged off his overcoat and the other took it with little ceremony and tossed it carelessly over his arm before stepping back, using his free hand to pull aside the curtain. Droog gave him a moment’s disapproval before he entered, unable to ignore the feeling that he was stepping into the lion’s den.

Snowman glanced up at him in silence. Her hat was low, its long, wide brim obscuring one eye while she studied him with the other. Droog stood just inside the curtain as it swung shut again behind him. The music played on, softly, in the background. Smoke curled upward from the end of her cigarette. After a moment, Snowman shifted and sat up, taking a long drag on her cigarette and letting the smoke out slowly. She looked less than pleased, but then, she was always hard for Droog to read.

"Where is he?" she murmured.

“On his way," he said.

"I see," Snowman said with ambivalence. She paused a moment more, watching him; predatory. "Please. Sit."

Droog uncomfortably stepped forward. Two chairs sat across from the chaise with a low coffee table in between them. He took a seat in one of them and made an effort to ignore the empty chair beside him. Snowman took another drag on her cigarette and reached forward to tap the ashes into the ashtray on the table. "How rude of me," she said, sounding distant and insincere, "please. Would you care for a cigarette?"

"Got my own," Droog said, though he made no move to retrieve the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

Snowman didn’t look up at him now, gazing down at the embers in the ashtray. "In that case, may I offer you a light?"

"No thank you, ma’am."

Snowman's face quirked into a small smirk at that. "Ma’am…”

Droog didn't reply. Snowman continued to smirk for a moment before she glanced across the lounge as a saxophonist began playing on the stage. It was a slow, meandering tune, accompanied by a bassist and percussionist, softly. There was no one on piano.

"You play the saxophone, don't you, Diamonds?” Snowman mused, distantly. “Itchy said you did...Caught a glimpse of the two of you playing together the other night. You know, I’d had no idea Slick had learned to play the piano…”

Droog never let his eyes leave her. Subconsciously, his right hand came to rest lightly on his jacket pocket, where his Ace of Diamonds was safely tucked away. "What are you after, ma’am?"

Snowman let a puff of smoke blossom free from her lips. "Pardon?"

Droog tapped the fingers of his left hand on the arm of the chair. He was feeling uncharacteristically restless, and the chair beside him was so very empty. "The purpose of this meeting,” he said dryly, his tone not betraying his discomfort. “What is it you want to _discuss?_ "

Snowman tilted her head slightly, watching him, catlike. "I thought we were waiting for your intrepid leader."

" _You're_ waitin for Slick,” he replied stiffly. “I’ve got places to be. If you’re not gonna do business with me, then I got no business being here at all."

Snowman's lips curled into a small smile. Droog stiffened. She shifted her weight, swinging one leg over the other and adjusting her skirt with her long fingers. "You don't like me, Diamonds," she said coolly. "You never have. You don’t quite _hate_ me, though. At least, not in any _interesting_ way…” She chuckled quietly and Droog resisted the urge to grip the arm of the chair, an uncomfortable feeling of vulnerability creeping up his spine. “But unless my memory is betraying me,” Snowman went on, stroking a finger over her bottom lip, “I’ve never done a single unkind thing to you...You were always an admirable agent, and you were treated as such, when I was...well. In the old days.” She took a breath and let out a long sigh, gazing languidly past him at the vague shape of the stage as seen through the low light and the smoke and the curtain. The music played on. “I knew the way the game is played, I knew it was only a matter of time before you betrayed me...But it was still such a disappointment to find you following _him_ around in the aftermath…You could do so much _better_ , my dear Dignitary.”

Droog stood up stiffly and she watched him, an amused smile playing at her lips. She didn’t speak. Droog stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I ain’t here to listen to you talk about the old days. You want Slick, you can wait for him alone.”

Snowman smiled to herself, leaning forward and tapping her cigarette on the ash tray. “My my. It seems I’ve tread on his little lapdog’s tail…”

Droog stared at her, his expression stiff, restrained. “You and those green bastards got no place in this town."

“Oh please,” she murmured, amused, “be a good boy and recite his adorable little line, will you? How does it go?” She lowered her voice in a mocking imitation of Slick’s raspy tones: “’I’m Spades Slick and I made this town!’”

Droog took a deep breath in through his nose and turned stiffly. He threw the veil out of his way, ignoring Snowman’s laughter as he grabbed his coat and hat from the Felt members outside and tugged them on as he stalked for the exit.

...

The tailor was dead on the parlor floor, his blood soaking through the rug and likely saturating the floorboards beneath it. Droog frowned and shut the light in the den back off before heading up the stairs, returning his hand to his coat pocket. He could hear Slick banging out a tune on the piano in his room, fingers clacking against the keys loud enough to be heard over the music. Droog stepped into his own room and hung his coat up on the wall, setting his hat on top of it and taking a breath before willing himself to turn around and cross the hall to the other man’s quarters.

_This_ again.

Slick’s door was closed, but not latched, and Droog pushed it open easily with one hand. A few discarded beer bottles rolled across the floor, clinking up against one another. Slick’s back was to the door and his piano playing continued, but he turned to glance over his shoulder with his good eye, a toothy sneer on his blood-flecked face. “Well, look who’s back! And y’still got both yer eyes. Ain’t you a lucky bastard.”

Droog held his gaze stoically, remaining in the doorway lest he disturb anything else in Slick’s garbage pit of a room. “She wasn’t interested in talking to me, Slick.”

“‘Course not,” Slick said, turning back around, his fingers still rolling across the keys. “Who the hell’d be interested in talkin’ to you?”

Droog stared at the back of Slick's head, unhappily acknowledging the reality that Slick had sent him into the lion's den with absolutely no intention of following. He stepped up slowly and silently behind him. Slick was playing an old tune, a familiar tune, though he was embellishing and improvising as he went. Sometimes when Slick was like this, Droog accompanied him on sax, but he didn’t feel much like playing tonight. He moved just in back of Slick’s blind side and stood there, silent, taking note of the bloody horse hitcher on the floor beside the piano bench. Judging by the way the tailor’s face had been smashed in downstairs, it was likely the weapon responsible. 

Funny, Droog thought to himself, Slick had seemed to be in more of a stabbing mood when they’d parted. But then, Slick’s moods were nothing if not erratic.

After a while of playing his meandering tune, Slick grumbled with poorly-hidden curiosity, “What’d the bitch want anyway?”

Droog cleared his throat loudly and Slick jolted at the sudden realization of how close Droog was to him, his music coming to a loud finish as he slammed his hands on the piano and twisted around--and finding Droog on his blind side, twisted around in the opposite direction to see the other man with his good eye. “DAMMIT, DROOG. You scared the hell outta me.”

Droog looked down at him calmly, not in the least bit shaken by Slick’s outburst. “You need to put an end to this.”

“An end to what?” Slick muttered, turning back to the piano and prodding at a few keys.

“Your...relationship with _her_. It’s gettin’ dangerous.”

Slick chuckled bitterly. “If yer so worried about me, why don’t ya join us?”

“Not my style.”

“Heh. ‘Course not.” Slick’s fingers rolled over the keys. The melody was returning to him, slowly. “It’s always been dangerous an’ you know it. It was dangerous when it started, it’ll be dangerous when it ends. It ain’t worth it otherwise.” He stared down at the keys, drawing the melody from them with practiced ease. It was the only thing Spades Slick did with ease. 

Droog lingered behind him, watching Slick’s fingers scurry over the keys. “I hated that bitch from the moment I saw her,” Slick murmured, “and I’ll hate her til the moment I pull the trigger...”

Droog was silent. There was a moment when he considered dropping it, leaving, going to bed. They’d had this conversation half a dozen times before and as Droog well knew, there was little in the universe that could persuade Spades Slick to change his mind about anything.

But something gave him pause, made him hesitate. Uncharacteristic of him. 

He reached down a hand and clasped it tightly around Slick’s good shoulder. Slick tensed under the touch, his music slowing, but not stopping. “Get yer goddamn mits offa me, Droog.”

“You ain’t a Jack any more, Slick,” Droog said, evenly. Slick stilled, but remained tense, still playing quietly. “You’re an Ace in this hand, one we need if we’re gonna do anything other’n _this_ the rest of our lives. The crew depends on you, Slick, an’ if you’re gettin’ back in bed with the Queen again, we ain’t gonna keep this good thing going much longer.” Droog paused and Slick remained silent, his fingers ambling along the keys in a meandering melody. Droog cleared his throat and spoke softly, “She ain’t here to negotiate and you know it.”

Slick still didn’t respond. Droog loosened his grip and began to withdraw when the music abruptly stopped and he felt Slick’s bony hand suddenly clamp around his arm. He looked back down as Slick tightened his grip on Droog’s wrist, holding onto him firmly. “...y’don’t get it.”

“I never said I did,” Droog replied, quietly.

Slick twisted, looking over his shoulder at Droog with his good eye, then he turned around completely, swinging his legs around to the other side of the bench to face Droog straight on. His gaze had calmed, his expression remarkably...calm, but serious, in a, ‘don’t fuck with me, I’m the boss, and don’t you forget it’ way.

“I’m the boss of this crew, Droog. Y’hear me? Y’do what I say, and y’don’t talk back about it.”

Exactly.

Droog raised his chin slightly, looking down his nose at Slick. The smaller man ducked his chin a bit in response, looking up at Droog from beneath the unruly strands of slicked hair that had fallen across his forehead. Without a word, Droog reached down his free hand and cupped Slick’s cheek in his palm. Slick tensed, still staring up at him, glaring. Then Droog carefully brushed the stubble along Slick’s jaw before he withdrew his hand, producing a cigarette with a flick of his wrist. Slick glanced at it, then back at Droog and down again. He cursed and let go of Droog’s wrist, snatching the offered cigarette as Droog reached into his pocket to fetch his lighter. 

Droog placed another cigarette between his own lips and lit it with a click as Slick popped his cigarette into his mouth and began to stand, but Droog leaned forward and forced the other man back down onto the piano bench. Droog wasn’t an especially tall man, but next to Slick, just about anyone was big. With the exception of Deuce, of course.

Slick tensed, leaning back and bumping against the piano keys with a loud, unpleasant chord as Droog hovered over him. Slick glared spitefully as Droog leaned near enough to touch the end of his cigarette to Slick’s and sucked in a breath to set the end aglow with warm, orange light.

After a moment, Slick’s cigarette caught. 

Slick sucked in a deep breath and then lifted a hand to snatch the cigarette from his mouth before puffing the smoke out into Droog’s face. Droog straightened up with his own cigarette held between his lips, smoothing his jacket, unperturbed by the childish display.

“Fuck you,” Slick spat.

Droog tipped his head to one side, opening his mouth and removing the cigarette to respond when a loud knock came from downstairs. Droog turned toward the hall, wondering who it could possibly be, when Slick stood up sharply, the cigarette dropping from his lips to the floor. He stared at his open door, hands clenching into tight, sinewy fists at his sides. Droog gave him a weary look before grinding out the dropped cigarette embers before they caught one of the dozens of discarded newspapers on fire. The knock came again.

“Goddammit,” Slick cursed, tearing out of the room like an animal. Droog followed him at a casual pace, but his chest had grown tight, his breathing stilted. How did he always know it was her…?

As Slick came downstairs into the hall, Deuce’s head poked out of his own bedroom, looking up at his boss with interest and concern as he stalked by. “Slick?”

Slick flicked him off without a word, his eyes locked on the front door. Boxcar’s door was closed. He wasn’t about to get anywhere near this, and Droog couldn’t blame him. 

As Droog followed Slick down the hall, he gave Deuce a warning glance and motioned for him to shut his door. Deuce nodded fervently and ducked back out of sight, closing the door behind him.

Slick came to the front door in a rage, grabbing the handle and tearing it open.

There she stood, exactly as Droog had seen her just an hour earlier, with a coat over her dress and her long cigarette holder still in hand. Her two Felt bodyguards stood at either elbow, looking at Slick with empty expressions, but Slick didn’t even seem to notice them. He’d locked eyes with Snowman, and nothing else in the universe could have mattered to him at that moment.

“Hello, Slick.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

She looked amused. “You missed our meeting.”

Slick sneered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I got better things to do.”

Snowman leaned forward, her free hand outstretched, stroking the curve of Slick’s jaw before he could even react to tug away. She cupped his cheek, much as Droog had upstairs several minutes ago. Droog watched from a few feet behind Slick, his expression flat. “Better than me?” Snowman murmured, tauntingly.

Slick stared at her for a moment, his expression hard, before he swatted her hand away, glaring again with his one good eye. “Did you come here to talk or to fuck? Cuz I’m only interested in one of ‘em.”

Snowman quirked the same smug, amused smile she had with Droog. Except with Slick it was more...personal. More practiced. “We have business to discuss, Slick.”

Slick tsked, showing his teeth. “Wrong one.”

Snowman smirked. She glanced past Slick now, making eye contact with Droog in the hall. He held it, silent. “Hello again, Droog,” she said, and Slick bristled visibly. “I trust you can talk some sense into him.”

Slick spat out a curse while Droog continued to hold her gaze, stoic. “Not where you’re concerned, ma’am.”

Slick sucked in a breath at that, turning round toward Droog with a fire in his eye. “MA’AM?” he spat out like a curse. Droog glanced at him to find Slick staring at him with an offended glare. “Since when the fuck did you start calling her MA’AM?!”

Droog held his stare for a moment, looking not in the least bit perturbed. He turned back to Snowman slowly. She was delighted, although hiding it (poorly), to sew a few seeds of dissent between the two of them. It was too bad Droog knew so well how to hit her back. “Since it stopped bein’ accurate to call her ‘Your Majesty.’”

Snowman’s expression shifted, and though it took Slick a moment to process the severity of the insult, a nasty, toothy grin came onto his own face when he turned back to her with renewed vigor. “Man’s got a point,” he said, grinning smugly. “Now you listen here: I ain’t interested in talking to you, and I ain’t interested in negotiating. I built this goddamn town and there ain’t no room in it for you or them green bastards you’re shacking up with. You tell that boss of yers I want em out. I want ALL of em out.”

Snowman took a drag on her cigarette, regarding Slick with a cold stare. The two members of the Felt who lingered behind her exchanged uncomfortable glances, clearly unable to read the situation well enough to know whether they ought to be preparing for a fight or not. Droog kept an eye on the both of them, one hand on the Ace of Diamonds in his pocket, just in case.

“I will relay your message,” Snowman said finally, her tone even. 

Slick sneered, at least until Snowman flicked the ashes of her cigarette at his face and he flinched away, shielding his only good eye and earning himself several small burns on the back of his hand. He glared at her from between his fingers and she smirked, playfully. Dangerously. Though silent, something passed between them that Droog was all too aware of. Snowman leaned down toward Slick and he stepped forward to meet her, grabbing the lapel of her coat to pull her down closer to him while she snaked her free arm around him. The two members of the Felt glanced at each other and then away uncomfortably. Droog frowned with discomfort. 

Slick made a small grunt of pain and something shifted in their posture. Snowman’s movement stopped. She smiled, her face less than an inch from his own. He had forced a knife up between them, under her chin, and was staring hard, blood welling on the corner of his lip where she’d bitten him. For a moment, they stayed like that, locked in an embrace, each willing the other to make a move. Then Snowman slowly leaned away and Slick withdrew the knife and let go of her coat, watching her coldly.

“You tell English,” Slick growled.

Snowman was still smiling, a spot of Slick’s blood on her own lip. “Consider it done.” She turned and her escorts turned slowly with her, stealing glanced back at Slick and Droog as they left. “Goodnight, Slick,” she murmured.

Slick watched her go, not speaking. Her car was parked on the street out front. One member of the Felt opened the rear door and she climbed in, graceful and slow as ever. He shut the door behind her and the two got into the front. Droog stepped up beside Slick as the car engine started and it took off down the street, taillights disappearing into the darkness.

“I hate that bitch,” Slick muttered.

“I know,” Droog agreed.

Slick opened his jacket and returned the knife to one of half a dozen places on his body where he regularly hid knives. He breathed out a frustrated sigh and rubbed at his bloody lip with the knuckles of his left hand. “Could’ve fucked her…”

Droog glanced at him, very mildly curious, though it barely registered on his face. “You could have,” he remarked.

Slick stood for a moment just as he was, stuffing his bloodied hand into his jacket pocket as he stared out at the empty street. “...didn’t have nothing to do with what you said,” he muttered.

Droog raised a brow, still watching Slick for a moment. Then he smiled to himself, _ever-so-slightly_ , and turned, heading back upstairs. Slick shot him a look. “What??” he barked. Droog didn’t look back. Slick stared after him, frustrated. He slammed the front door and began stalking after him. “What the hell’s that look for??”

Droog hummed noncommittally and continued up the stairs. As they passed by, Deuce’s door opened just a crack and the small man peeked out at them curiously. Slick flicked him off once again as he passed by and Deuce smiled with relief before ducking back into his room. 

“Droog!” Slick barked, but Droog continued to ignore him. “Hey, you bastard! You don’t turn your back on me when I’m talking!”

They reached the top of the steps and Droog made for his door. “ _HEY!_ ” Slick snapped, lunging forward and grabbing Droog by the arm. Droog turned, looking down on Slick with his usual, stoic expression. Slick faltered a little, though he immediately regretted it, adopting his glare once more. “Y’don’t tell me what to do, alright?? And you sure as hell got no business makin’ calls about my relationship with that bitch.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your affairs in that department,” Droog replied, all business once again. “My priority is your wellbeing with regards to the success of this crew.”

Slick stared up at him for a moment, silent. Then he glanced away, knitting his brows. He was fidgeting with his hands in both his pockets, looking conflicted and frustrated and reluctant to go on, although it seemed to Droog that Slick didn’t know how to end this confrontation that he himself had instigated. “...y’done good by this crew, Droog.”

“High praise.”

“Don’t be a fucking asshole,” Slick sneered, looking back at him. “Y’done your JOB, it ain’t sayin’ much.”

Droog didn’t respond, not breaking Slick’s eye contact, just staring him down as he stood in the doorway to his room. Slick stared back, growing increasingly uncomfortable. After a moment, he cursed under his breath and turned stiffly, stalking across the hall to his own room. “Don’t get full of yerself.”

“Never, boss.”

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous thank you as always to Grunklebill for proofreading and helping to edit this short piece. Writing Slick is always a joy, I don't do it often enough.


End file.
